The Templar and the Mage
by JessicaJ
Summary: This memory is one that haunts his dreams. This memory is one that becomes his torture. This memory returns to simply be what it was; a memory of someone he had loved once. Cullen x Human Mage (Charlotte Amell)


**The Templar and the Mage**

_Dragon Age drabble sitting on my computer unfinished for some time- topped it, tailed it and decided to post._

_Hope you enjoy!_

-0-

He remembered thinking how beautiful the Circle tower was, the pointed spire piercing the sky, reflected beautifully in the glass-like surface of lake Calenhad. Little did he know that only a year later he would look back on the very same sight with a pained expression, glad to never see it again.

Templar life, in many ways, had turned out exactly as Cullen Rutherford had hoped it would; The training, the discipline, the camaraderie. He had taken to it all like a duck to water. He had formed bonds with the men of the order, men who came from all corners of Thedas and from all ranks, orders and walks of life.

His dedication and enthusiasm had earned him the notice of a Templar recruiter at his home village, and his recruitment into the order was swift. A thirteen-year-old, barely a man, barely able to lift a great sword let alone swing one, barely even aware of the dangers that awaited him in the wide world.

He chuckled at the thought of it, now.

In other ways, it wasn't what he expected. His parents had never been the god-fearing sorts, and instilled neither fear nor hatred within him of magic, of Tevinter, or of any particular evils the world harboured, for that matter. They spoke of caution when wandering too far from home, of speaking with strangers, of wolves that came out to hunt at twilight.

Nothing like what the Chantry feared.

Privately, he thought them a little maniacal in their fear, their ability to reason and to apply logic clouded by their desire to stamp out danger. Danger was magic. And Magic came through Mages. Surely being so reductive of such complex things, things that humans had barely begun to understand, would only lead to further strains between mages and the Chantry?

Mages were connected to the fade, able to channel energies through the veil that others could not. If a Mage lost control, they would become an abomination, and therefore must be killed. They must be watched at all times, confined to towers or fortifications known as Circles. Most regions in Thedas had a Circle of Magi, including Ferelden; where he was stationed a year into service as a fully-fledged Templar.

-0-

Apprentice mages were clustered together in cramped living quarters, with often ten or twenty mages sharing the same space. They were roughly grouped by age, the little ones together in one room while those bordering adulthood shared another.

He was struck with how little thought was given to gender here, but after a few weeks, he realised that these young men and women had been brought here at a very young age, some as young as four or five, from when they first showed signs of magic. They grew up together, and as such had little thought of their companions outside of a sibling-like relationship. They slept, ate, and bathed together, undressing with little thought to their own privacy. Any prudish sorts quickly abandoned those notions in favour of convenience.

He quickly learned of the tight routine maintained here. Keeping young mages busy from dawn until early evening was, he suspected, a deliberately employed method to keep energy channelling in constructive, and more importantly, less dangerous directions. If the most suspicious of The Order was to be believed, a Mage would spend any freedom practicing blood magic.

Mornings started for the apprentices with cleaning the communal spaces- bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens, library – followed by a brief breakfast in the dining hall and time allowed for bathing, before prayers in the Chantry chapel. The Templars attended this also.

After reciting various canticles and being preached to about the dangers of magic (he felt that this would surely seem trite to the majority of the mages, who were surely not here by choice), classes began. For the youngest apprentices under his watch, this meant more theoretical study than practical application of the arcane arts; for apprentices that had yet to undergo the Harrowing, they learned to wield their arcane abilities, exploring the various schools of magic, their applications first into society, before they set out to find where their natural affinities lay.

In his first week, Cullen was drafted to oversee a young female elf's Harrowing – a process where a mage was asked to enter the fade and pass a test against a demon. Were they to emerge victorious and free from possession, they became fully fledged mages of the Circle. If they were to fail, or their spectral form be gone too long in the fade, they must be struck down, never to return from the top of that tower.

The young female elf – Rosalie, was it? – was very nervous about her Harrowing. She had been distracted trying to study about the history of the Circle and was panicking about what was to come, once the first Enchanter Irving had instructed her to proceed to the Lyrium font.

He remembered wondering how such a young fragile thing, (she barely reached his shoulder, with fair silver-blonde hair and Dalish tattoos) could become something so… horrifying. The Lyrium in his veins, imbuing him with powers to sense magic, thrummed at the sudden invasion of a much stronger magical presence before him. The veil was thinning.

An abomination was come.

The form of the elf was gone, stretched and mutilated into something far more horrifying, with bubbling red skin, blistering with rage, black eyes unseeing at yet fixed upon him. His broadsword felt heavier than usual in his palms as he lifted it and struck the creature down.

The Knight-Commander clapped him on the back in congratulations for his swift action, though the gesture felt hollow somehow. Was _this_ what the Chantry did in service to the Maker? Stole away young mages from their families, raised them in captivity without access to the outside world, and then without warning force them to face a demon _alone_? What hope did they have at being victorious? Surely some must, for the tower hosted a large number of circle mages. Yet, as he faced down each Abomination, he wondered if they could do more to help them prepare.

His thick steel armour seemed heavier each night following a failed Harrowing, as he removed it to sleep.

One night some months later, following yet another Harrowing, sleep did not come.

He wandered the halls, silent and unarmoured, leather boots whispering over the carpets in the library. His feet carried him past the sleeping quarters where the apprentices slept, oblivious to their fellow's fate, and into the kitchens.

He had started to wander here for refuge in the night, when homesickness and doubts came unbidden. Sitting by the dying fire, a mug of tea cupped in his palms, he could almost be at home.

Almost.

He was slightly surprised to find that a fire crackled merrily in the hearth still, at this hour, casting dancing shadows of the kitchen worktables against the stone.

"Ser Cullen?" A curious voice calls out from the stove. His eyes adjust, making out the silhouette of an apprentice mage against the flames of the oven. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same question of you." He tenses, realising that he was unarmed, except for the small knife in his belt, and woefully unarmoured; dressed only in his boots, leggings and shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows.

"Oh, me? I'm just making some bread, actually. Won't you sit down? It's just gone into the oven, and it is best enjoyed fresh after all." The scent of baking dough washes over him, his stomach betraying him by grumbling hopefully.

"You shouldn't be out of bed, should you?" Actually, he was unsure. The kitchen _was_ within bounds, given the kitchen staff were a mixture of apprentice mages and some tranquil. Then again, there was a curfew…

He edges closer, body still tensed lest she try to surprise him with anything – _come on Cullen, what is she going to do, hit you with a wooden spoon_? – and as her features come into relief, he recognises her.

Charlotte Amell, a young human mage. Many spoke well of her in the tower, of her dedication to study and her no-nonsense attitude that earned people's respect rather than consternation, though he had never spoken with her before.

"Technically, no. But it's First Enchanter Irving's birthday tomorrow, did you know? I thought I'd make him cake. But then I got distracted and made bread as well. No blood magic, no illegal magical experiments, just… cooking!" She waggles her flour-coated fingers mischievously.

He notes she has flour on her cheeks, and dusting the front of her robes, despite the apron she had tied about her waist.

"My name is Charlotte, by the way. I don't think we've spoken have we Ser Cullen?"

"I ah… don't believe so, no."

She is pretty. The thought hits him suddenly. Her long red hair is tucked behind her ears, tied at the nape of her neck with a ribbon. Still, despite her efforts, loose coils had pinged loose to fall into her eyes. She was so fair, pale skin warmed amber in the firelight, an explosion of freckles dusting her cheekbones. They dotted her wrists and her neck, exposed by her otherwise smothering mage robes. Her nose is slightly upturned at the tip, fitting her playful nature. She was slight of frame, douses in all that fabric, though he could make out the silhouette of curves, flaring at her waist…

"Don't you think its ridiculous? I mean, I fully accept Templars have a duty to do, but is it so damned hard to be polite, to say hello? Pass me that cloth would you?"

And so it ended up that he was helping this mage in the kitchens, late into the night. He found himself looking towards the door, fearful for getting caught.

"Why do you keep doing that?" She asked, elbow deep in a bowl of cake batter. He was sat on a stool by the fire at her insistence, grateful for the chance to stretch out his long legs, back pressed against the hearth stone.

"I… habit, I guess."

"It's nice to see a Templar somewhat relaxed. I was beginning to think you didn't have a body underneath that heavy armour of yours. It must be exhausting, lugging yourself about all day in that. You stand so still all the time!" She tips the bowl of batter into an earthenware bowl, sliding it into the oven with a satisfied sigh.

"By contrast to you apprentices, always scurrying around," He chuckles.

"As if we have time for standing still," She rolls her eyes. "Ah, I think the bread is ready at last! Come and have a slice with me, Ser Cullen."

He drags himself to him feet, called by the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread. The sweet scent of the cake, baking in the oven behind her, is enticing also, though she wags her finger in his face at his inquiring glace towards the oven. "No cake for you, until tomorrow. And that's if you happen to be on duty in the right place at the right time."

She slices a sizeable chunk of bread off for him, and a smaller one for herself, slathering them in golden butter before passing it across to him. Their fingers touch.

He ignores the jolt of electricity he feels, nothing to do with magic at all, biting into the crust. His mouth full, melted butter gliding over his tongue, he is in heaven. They eat together in appreciative silence.

"Thanks for your help, Ser Cullen. And…" She tucks a loose strand of flaming hair behind her ear, escaped from her ribbon. "Thanks for not being a stick in the mud about this. Though you'd better go. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me."

"Thanks for the bread, it was delicious. And… er…" his hand finds the back of his neck, a strange tension settling between his shoulder blades. "Please, just call me Cullen."

"Alright… Cullen. Sleep well."

He doesn't realise he is grinning like an idiot until he was halfway down the corridor towards his dormitory, smelling faintly of freshly baked bread.

-0-

They meet next in the Chantry. He wasn't expecting to encounter anyone here at this time, evening prayers long behind them. He was nursing a headache, and the coolness, low light and more importantly, quiet of the chantry, was a welcome reprieve from the daily clamour of the tower.

He finds it dark, the candles all unlit, though the moonlight provides ample guidance for him. He enters cautiously.

She was kneeling upon the stone before a statue of Andraste, head bowed, palms pressed tightly together. He approached as quietly as he could, despite the clank of his armour, curious. Moonlight shone through the stained glass, bathing her in a spectrum of light beams. Maker, she made a beautiful sight.

As he drew nearer, she turns her head slightly, no doubt recognising the flash of silver in her peripheral vision as that of Templar armour. She ignores him, continuing her contemplations. Perhaps she hadn't recognised is was he who approached. He hangs back, by the pews, not wanting to disturb the vision before him.

"If you wish to pray Ser, I will excuse myself." She calls out, not turning her head.

"No, don't… you don't have to go on my account."

"Cullen?" She turns, squinting at him through the glinting fractals of light.

"Um, Hello."

"You should have said it was you!" She smiles warmly, and his knees weaken involuntarily. She couldn't know the effect that smile had, else she would have had him on his knees. "Look, I've been practicing. Watch this."

She returns to her previous position, hunched over her conjoined palms. He had moved closed at her invitation, and from his new vantage point, he could discern the creases of concentration in her brow, the slight beading of sweat at her temple.

Puddled before her, cold and unlit, were dozens of candles, their wax solidified into a single mass. Usually these were lit at the evening vigils, for fallen mages at their Harrowings, or else by those who came for silent contemplation. Having the chantry to herself, they had not yet been lit.

Whispering words of raw power, she extends a palm. In the wake of her trembling fingertips, all the wicks catch at once. Raising her arms high, exalted, the candelabra burst into light, the torches in the scones dance to life, along with the thousands of tiny lights around the periphery of the chapel.

She grins up at him, victorious, though it is all he can do to stare at her, enraptured by the play of light upon her face. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

"I… That was… impressive!"

"I've been practicing focussed flame for months. Fireballs- easy! Tiny puff of fire to light a candle wick – harder than you might think! I secretly think Mother Caroline is grateful she doesn't have to light all of these herself – Mages can be useful after all!" She winks at him, before practically skipping toward the door. "I will leave you to your prayers."

He kneels in the cool and the quiet, though his mind is not focussed on reciting the chant of light.

-0-

The following days and weeks pass by without event, save for the fact that he notices her everywhere. It was hard not to; she stood out in any room, with her wild amber curls, falling stark against the purple and claret of the apprentice robes.

He was thankful she did not choose to speak to him in presence of his Templar colleagues or indeed other mages, though he was even more thankful still of the times they passed in a corridor or encountered one another in a room when there were no others in earshot.

She would greet him with her easy smile, before hurrying off to complete whatever errand she was on, or if someone were to be approaching. He started to look forward to those encounters, subconsciously and then consciously trying to create them. He started to spot patterns in her routine; he knew where her dormitory was, when and where her classes took place…

When sleepless nights took hold, he found himself checking the kitchen for her presence, though sadly it stood empty of her and her baking.

He told himself it was just a way to pass the time. That he wouldn't let anything go further than conversation. He knew the risks, as did she.

But attraction often has different ideas and takes matters into its own hands.

One evening, after he had returned from an off-duty afternoon outside of the tower, he returns to find the apprentice realm of the tower relatively quiet. Evening classes concluded, many of the young apprentices were in their dormitories, while others were wandering the halls, making their way to the communal bathing area, or to the private study rooms.

He walks past her, lying on her stomach before the fire in the library, ankles crossed and raised, swinging, a blanket over her head as she reads.

"Ser Cullen?" She calls out, tugging back the blankets to once more bring her trademark curls into view. "Have a nice afternoon off?"

"Oh, hello Charlotte." He backtracks, acting as though he hadn't been looking for her all along. A quick glance reveals they have the library to themselves. "Ah… I did thanks. I ah… I met up with my sister."

Her expression doesn't warm, however, and his brows furrow. "Is something wrong?"

"I thought you might have accompanied Ser Thomas and the other templars. They were bragging about going to the Fair Maidens." The brothel, in the town across the lake. An angry red flush rises from his neck.

"The Maidens… No! I wouldn't- I mean, I… I'm not interested in that."

Why, in the Maker's name, was he bothered if… if a mage thought he visited a brothel? Cullen had never been easy around members of the opposite sex, not least those he found attractive, and the mere thought of paying one to share his bed was an alien concept. The order did not forbid it, though it was only asked that they did not frequent such establishments in uniform, no matter how the whores might beg them to. His brothers in the Templars sought carnal pleasures when they could, on their brief forays outside the tower of duty. It wasn't as if the tower didn't offer temptation, though the risk often far outweighed any reward.

She is frowning still, clever green eyes fixed upon him. "Don't they have boys, too?- If you're not interested in girls, I hear."

"What?! I, no I'm not… what I meant was I… I like someone." He doesn't know what made him say it, but the words fall out before he can stop them.

She doesn't say anything, returning her eyes to her open book with a simple _oh_.

"Oh? What's that supposed to mean?" He stammers, feeling rather foolish.

"It means I'm minding my own business."

"You weren't minding your own business when you were asking about the brothel, were you?"

She closes her book abruptly, rising up like a cat to settle on her haunches, palms folded in her lap. She looks like she has won the hand of Wicked Grace they are playing, in spite of his fistful of aces, eyes trained carefully on the carpet, a slight twitch to the firm line of her mouth.

"Andraste preserve me," He sighs, cracking at last. Her hands fly to her mouth, stifling her giggles.

"Your face was priceless," She protests, tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks.

"Damn minx."

"Prude."

"What's all this giggling about? Am I missing a joke?" The Knight-Commander strode into the room, dispelling the laughter instantly from his lips. Charlotte was unperturbed, her guilt complex not as easily triggered as that of her Templar conspirator.

"I was just ribbing Ser Cullen about his _clandestine_ afternoon offer, Ser." The smile is easy on her face, the book innocently at her lap. They were spaced at least ten paces apart, and the hour was evidently not late enough to cause concern. Yet Ser Greagoir was never easily assuaged.

"A word, if you would, Rutherford. And you, Amell isn't it? Mind your own business."

"But my business is so boring, _Ser_. I'd much rather probe into someone else's." At this, she rolls her eyes and collects her belongings. "I should leave you two good sers to converse. I shall retire to my dorm, if you'll excuse me."

Cullen feels rather than watches her leave, the breeze of the opening and closing door into the corridor punctuating her departure. Greagoir turns to him, once he is certain her footsteps have receded far enough.

"Her Harrowing is imminent. I don't need to tell you to keep that to yourself, do I, Cullen?"

He shakes his head. "No, Knight-Commander."

He seems to consider him for a moment, before continuing. "You have proven yourself at a number of Harrowings recently. You shall attend hers. If she should fail, you shall deliver the blow."

With that, Greagoir stalks from the room, leaving Cullen with whirling thoughts in his wake.

-0-

The next three days pass painfully; He hardly sees her, purposefully keeping his eyes trained on the ground in the Chantry at morning prayers, and slightly above eye level when stood sentry in corridors; all the while expecting that call to come.

He doesn't sleep well. Lying on his back in his bunk the third night, he sighs. It's no use; he stands, silently slipping from the room where his fellow Templars slept, snoring in their bunks. Wandering in the scone-lit corridors, he is drawn to his usual haunt, the kitchens.

The fire has burned down low, though he finds he is not alone in seeking the warmth of the hearth.

"Charlotte?"

She is huddled close to the embers, sat cross-legged on the hearthstone, the fabric of her night dress drawn over her knees. At his address, she jerks her head up, before her expression softens.

"Ah, it's you. I thought I might find you here."

"You were waiting for me?" He frowns, though settles himself a respectable distance from her, within the warmth of the fireside.

"Maybe I was…" She is worrying the sleeves of her nightdress with her fingers, clenching and unclenching the fabric. He notices it is a bit short, the hem reaching just past her elbow.

"I… I couldn't sleep." He finds himself saying, running his hands through his flaxen hair.

"I can see that." She rests her temple in her palm, fire-kissed curls bursting between her fingers and spilling over her shoulders. He can barely make out her expression in the sultry light of the dying embers, her visage a war of shadow and dancing amber light.

She is smiling at him, though it does not warm him as it normally would have. The Knight Commander's words of the day before rang in his ears. He might have to kill her. She was considered dangerous, as an unproven mage. Even as a fully-fledged mage, she would be dangerous still.

"We shouldn't… I mean I don't know…" He sighs, frustrated with himself. "If you weren't a mage, and I wasn't a templar, and we weren't in this damn tower… we'd be friends."

"Aren't we friends now?"

"No-, I mean yes! _Maker's breath_ why is this so hard?"

"And if I wasn't me, and you weren't you… we wouldn't be _here_." She slaps her palm to the stone to make her point, leaning her weight into it. She is closer, enough that he can start to count the freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"But we are here." He sighs sadly. Here. Kinloch Hold. The Circle of Magi. "And I am a Templar."

"I know what you are trying to say, Cullen. I… I respect that. We can't be friends; You're water and I am oil... Mages and Templars don't mix."

"I'm sorry." He is on his feet before he can even protest with himself. He wanted nothing more than to stay by the fireside with her, the beautiful, red-haired, forbidden mage. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to feel the heat of her skin beneath the flimsy fabric of her nightdress…

She stands also, the hem of her nightshirt fluttering to kiss the back of her calves. She is tall for a lady, the crown of her curls reaching his chin. Before he can back away, before he can count all of the reasons he should be pushing her away, she has wrapped herself around him. Curious fingers trace shapes up his spine, padding gently into the firm musculature of his shoulders. They ruffle the hair at the nape of his neck, trailing deliciously over his scalp.

It takes a few moments to realise he is holding her in return, twitching hands at the base of her spine, at the hollow of her back, before the taunting rise of her backside. His fingers gather up a little of her nightshirt, the fabric whispering teasingly over her flesh.

They stare at one another, absorbing the sensation of another's body, of all the points they are touching. The silence is a signal of safety, yet still his heart is racing in his chest, urging him to touch her, touch more of her, to taste her mouth…

"I know it's my Harrowing soon," She whispers, tilting her face upward. Her hair tumbles down her back, and he gives in to the need to bury his fingers within it. her scent washes over him, delicately spiced orange, and elfroot. "I couldn't possibly face the demon without a good luck kiss."

"Damn minx." He sighs, revelling in the sight of her as she closes her eyes, leaning into his touch.

"Prude."

He kisses her, hesitant fingers cupping her jaw as he holds her there, allowing her a moment to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't, insistent hands tugging at his sleepshirt, pressing their mouths closer together, her tongue darting out experimentally across his bottom lip. He moans, tugging her closer by fistfuls of that damned flimsy nightdress to deepen their kiss, tongues dancing together, knees weakening at the little sounds she made in the back of her throat.

They come apart, too soon, filling the air between them with desperate sounds of want, fighting to catch their breath.

"I should get some sleep, Chantry boy," She pulls herself free of his arms, showing more willpower than he felt he possessed at that moment. His body had burst into life at her touch, and it took all he had to restrain himself, fists clenched and shaking, because he wanted to pull her body back to his and take her before the fire.

"Charlotte…"

"Goodnight." She smiled sadly, before departing the kitchen, leaving him alone in the semi-dark.

The next day dawns, and before he is ready he receives the message. It was time.

He puts on his armour with a heavy heart; dreading seeing her again. Scared to see her fail, ashamed of himself for his transgression… He pauses a little longer than he should in the chantry, though rather than asking for his own forgiveness he asks that the Maker watches over her trial. _Maker, keep her safe._

-0-

On reflection, he supposed he needn't have worried. She was different to the average mage; smart, sure, but so _aware_. She lacked naiveite, possessed a worldliness no mage of The Circle, having lived there since infancy, had the right to possess.

He'd told himself to not get his hopes up, regardless.

He was ready and waiting in the vaulted stone room, where all apprentices faced their Harrowing, eyes trained on nothing in particular, purposefully not wanting to meet her eyes as she crested the stair case. Someone- possibly Enchanter Irving – was speaking, though he barely listened to the words, instead stealing a glance at her.

She seemed nervous, though resolute; her fingers clutched agitatedly at the hems of her sleeves, capping her knuckles in the fabric. She nodded periodically as Enchanter Irving spoke, eyes hardening at something Ser Greagoir had said. Her jaw set, she approaches the Lyrium font slowly, the soles of her soft leather shoes whispering across the stone, palm outstretched. He remembered how she had reached for the candles that night in the Chantry, how the candlelight played on her skin.

The cold glow of the Lyrium bathed her, turning her already pale complexion a faint blue. As the Veil lifted, her spiritual form leaving her corporeal one behind, her eyes roll backward into her head. Ruby coils of hair rendered strangely colourless in the Lyrium bloom float around her, as if suspended in water.

Time seemed to stretch painfully – was she taking too long? Would Greagoir ask him to cut her down, before she had a chance to transform? He'd not had to do _that_ yet. He couldn't imagine a more horrific event to happen, to her, of all people…

Then, as soon as it began, it is over.

She crumples to the stone on her hands and knees, offering a weak smile to Enchanter Irving to note her success, before she passes out from exhaustion. He releases a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

The First Enchanter finds Cullen's eyes. "Go on, son – would you kindly take her back to her apprentice quarters? When she wakes we can do the usual acknowledgements – but for now, she needs to recover." This wasn't an unusual request to make – had he not done the same for the last mage to complete the Harrowing? – and it wasn't as if the elderly Irving had it in him to carry her anywhere. Carrying a lowly mage, newly Harrowed at that, was certainly a task beneath the Knight Commander. Yet in asking it of _him_, for Charlotte…

He kneels beside her lifeless form, turning her onto her back gently, his palms sweating inside his gloves. Her skin is covered in a faint sheen of perspiration, her chest rising and falling steadily. Her brow was creased. Perhaps her dreams picked up where the Fade left off. He takes a breath, sliding an arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lifts.

No mage ever weighed much, though the damned Circle tower had enough sets of stairs to make even transporting the featherweight Charlotte physically arduous. He tells himself that's why he is walking slowly, not because he is enjoying having her face pressed into his chest plate, the scent of her hair washing over him.

The corridors are empty in the apprentice quarters, what with morning classes underway, a fact which he is grateful for. Nudging the door to her dorm open with a pauldron-plated shoulder, they edge through the door-arch. He knows which bunk is hers by the tell-tale presence of her white nightdress, draped from the wooden frame. There is also a collection of candles fused to her headboard by hardened waxmelt. She must have been practicing here, before testing her focus at the chantry.

With relief he slides her from his arms to the mattress of her bunk, adjusting her limbs carefully so she lay prone on her back, arms resting on her stomach.

"Cullen?" Her eyes open a crack, and he is caught unawares, hitting his cranium on the underside of the bunk above hers.

"F-" he draws out the sound, trying his best not to swear. In spite of her exhaustion, she chuckles.

"Silly…" Her fingers lazily rub at the back of his head, losing themselves in his fair golden hair.

"I'm glad you're alright," He sighs, voice quivering. Only now does he realise just how glad he truly is.

She smiles softly, before slipping back into slumber. He dares only linger a few moments more, before he ducks out of the dormitory.

-0-

She sleeps through the dinner call and that for breakfast the following day. A fellow mage of hers, Jowan, was hanging around, eager to see her return to wakefulness to press her for details on the Harrowing. Cullen didn't know why that mage gave him a funny feeling though he had long learned to listen to his instincts, the Lyrium in his veins often working in mysterious ways to detect magic in all it's forms. Funny feelings often meant illegal activities.

"Don't you have classes to attend?" He barked later that day, upon spotting him lingering in the halls.

"First Enchanter Irving said I am to send Charlotte to him when she wakes." Jowan mutters, fidgeting, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We've a visitor he wants her to meet."

"The Grey Warden – Duncan isn't it?"

"Yes. What if he recruits her into the order? She'll be able to leave the tower." The mage's voice turns whiney, imbued with overwhelming longing and jealousy.

"As soon as I see her I will tell her myself – I am on duty here for the rest of the day. Get to your classes, Mage." He only feels a slight twinge of guilt at his nameless address, before turning his thoughts to the matter at hand.

The Grey Warden – of course he was here to recruit. But why Charlotte? Surely he wasn't here for _her_?

Unbidden emotion writhes in his gut as he ponders this. He'd rather gotten used to seeing her, had come to look forward to their sparse encounters in the tower. He knew it was wrong, how he felt about her, what they had done so far, even if innocent enough in any other place, between any other people.

As his thoughts spiralled madly, unseen inside his mind as he stood sentry in the corridor, she comes into his field of vision. Awake, uncorrupted, a fully-fledged mage, only a little weary-looking as a result of her ordeal.

"Oh, hello. I'm glad you're awake," He spoke in low tones, aware that other mages still might be about, in the middle of the day. Not to mention fellow Templar could stumble upon them at any moment. "I'm glad you passed your Harrowing. Greagoir wanted me to… to cut you down if you…if you failed."

She blinks, stunned a little by the impact of his otherwise softly spoken words. "I…I suppose that was his idea of a punishment, then."

"Perhaps," He hesitates, checking the coast was truly clear. "I'm glad I didn't have to. I'm not sure I could have… with you." The Corridor is too bright, too open for this kind of conversation, and where it might take them. He fights to find another topic of conversation, one not so dangerous to be found involved in. Then he remembers Jowan.

"Charlotte, you should report to the first Enchanter. He has asked to speak with you. There is… a Grey Warden here."

A gentle frown mars her brow, setting a glint in her hazel eyes. "A Grey Warden? Truly? How exciting! Well I should go. But… I will find you later."

They make eye contact, and he knows. He knows where this liaison is taking him, and he knows he is too weak-willed, unable to resist the temptation of her. He swallows a lump in his throat, though he says nothing to discourage her, only nodding curtly before turning his thoughts to logistics.

-0-

"Hello Cullen." She stops before him, running her hands along the front of her new robes – buttercream and peach in colour with golden stitching – the garb of a fully-fledged Mage of the Circle. The colours paled in comparison to her crown of ruby coils. Upon her finger is a silver ring, a token gift for newly minted Mages. She is wearing a new facial expression too, one he cannot read.

"Is everything alright?"

It's late now. Many apprentices had gone to bed, and the hallways were bathed in the light of the wall scones. He had been relieved of duty, had long ago discarded his armour in favour of his more casual garb. He had passed some time in the mess hall, read a book before the fire in the kitchens without really taking in the words, and now had taken to pacing the length of the library, where she had intercepted him.

She fidgets with her sleeves, avoiding his gaze momentarily, though not for long. Her eyes find his like magnets.

"We should talk. Somewhere private."

He nods briefly, following her past the rows of books towards a small reading room, tucked at the back of the section on herbalism, unlit and welcoming in it's blanket of darkness. She closes the door behind them softly. As his senses adjust, he follows her path around the room by the sounds she made; the click of the key in the lock, the soft whisper of her robes as she moved. A single point of flame comes to life from her fingertip, lighting a solitary candle. Charlotte restores the glass dome atop the lamp and sets it aside.

The reading room was reserved for private study for qualified mages. Perhaps she had been granted the key for its use this very night. It was small and sparsely furnished – a low desk, a chair, with a small fireplace, surrounded by freshly chopped logs awaiting kindling.

He wants to protest that this is dangerous, that if they are caught, they are both done for, but the words don't come.

"I spoke with the Grey Warden." She begins, busying her hands by rearranging a stack of books and some loose rolls of parchment that littered the surface of the desk. "It seems that there is a Blight coming and he is recruiting for new Grey Wardens to join their ranks. I… I have been put forward as a candidate."

He knew it was coming, somehow, yet it does not soften the blow. "You will leave the tower."

"Yes. As soon as tomorrow." She swallows audibly, unable to find any other items in the room to move or fidget with. She turns to him, sadness etched into her features, a far cry from the mage he met in the kitchens that night, happily baking bread. The mage that teased him for being shy. A mage. She was a mage.

And he was a Templar.

"Charlotte, I… I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," Her voice is dangerously close to breaking. "I wanted to see you, before I left."

The room is small, the walls closing in around them as inevitability settled in, taking up far too much space for its own good. He feels nothing and yet everything at once.

He wants her to stay, yet he wants her to go. He knows she is special, he knew it from the moment they first spoke with one another. He knows she can do great things, should never have been confined in this prison in the first place. He knows she has found her way into his heart, against all odds, against all protocol and against his better judgement. He knows that he is going to commit further heresy tonight. He knows that they are not oil and water, but oil and flame; volatile, dangerous, a recipe for explosive power. She burned too brightly, and she was burning too close.

Her thighs bump the back of the desk hard enough to leave bruises, the fabric of her robes fold to form a barrier between them momentarily as it is gathered up and lifted away. The cool air assaults her skin, her flesh erupting into tiny bumps that read like braille beneath his fingertips.

There was no cognisance left to process how wonderful she looked in the light of that single flame; no thought given to how his fingers felt buried in her hair, nor how the position was less than ideal and less than comfortable for either of them. Her fingers fumbled with the lacing of his leggings.

But they come loose. She is small and lithe beneath his hands. He is strong yet unsteady; wanting this yet admonishing himself simultaneously.

He readjusts her position, fingers hooked behind her knees to tug her closer to the edge of the desk. Ankles lock behind his waist. They are still for a moment. His knees start to shake a little. His face buried in her neck, he hilts himself inside her, groaning low and long as the sensations overwhelm him. Her breath comes in tiny bursts against his ear, her walls softening around him, adjusting to his intrusion.

They crash together, he the waves and she the cliffs. The desk beneath them shifts slightly, an uncertain shore upon which they break. It is agonising. Her teeth clamp around the flesh at the juncture of his shoulder and he sets his jaw, grinding out her name as both a warning against and a request for more. His fingertips, gripping, holding, leave marks, stippled along the outside of her thighs.

Her heels dig into his back, pulling him as tight against her as was physically possible to do so. Charlotte's eyes are half-lidded, her face tilted upward, jawline sharpened by shadows. She _burns,_ a hitched breath and then she is crumbling against him, his final wave cresting before breaking within her.

The small space is filled with their sighs before they are crushed by their silence.

She tears her body slowly away from him, the slight wince of discomfort that flashes across her visage bolts him in place, forcing the words that ricocheted in his mind to remain behind his closed lips. He knows that he was the first, had taken something from her that was willingly given in the knowledge that it would be the only time. She clothes herself, the whispering of fabric as she moved the only utterance of a goodbye, leaving the room as silently as they had entered.

There were no more words left.

-0-

This memory is one that haunts his dreams.

He'd never understood succumbing to desires, forbidden ones especially, until the moment his lips touched hers that night in the kitchen; until his body joined with hers in the confines of the library. It was the finest of wines; the last bottle of the rarest of vintages. He knew he must savour it, and yet it was too good, and over too soon.

This memory is one that becomes his torture, when the castle is overrun with abominations. Believing it was possible that he could love a mage, and suffer her to live at the same time.

This memory returns to simply be what it was; a memory of someone he had loved once. He finds he is capable again of forgiveness, for both himself and her kind. Later, Cullen enters a new age as Commander of the Inquisition. There, he learns to love and to trust in mages once again.


End file.
